A Twist of the Knife Page 6

  It didn’t take that long. A connecting door opened and a white, middle-aged man, Agent George Bradley, dressed in his usual pale-gray vested suit, stepped quickly into the room, cutting off Moodrow’s laughter.

  “I hate fat cops,” he said to Leonora.

  “What are you talking about, man?” Moodrow protested. “I ain’t got an ounce of fat on me.”

  Bradley smiled indulgently. “Then why do you buy your shirts three times too large?” He pointed to where Moodrow’s shirt hung over his belt. “Leonora, I think we’d better get this over with.” He walked to the bookshelves and picked up a can of room deodorant. “Only half a can. Lord, the sacrifices we make.”

  Moodrow smiled eagerly. “You spray that shit at me, I’m gonna sacrifice your right arm.” He took a step forward, but Leonora jumped between them, placing a gentle palm against Moodrow’s chest. “Sergeant,” she said, “why don’t you be seated? We can get down to business in a moment. I apologize for having kept you waiting.” She turned to George Bradley, her speech slow and controlled, her enunciation precise. “George, why don’t you let me work with Sergeant Moodrow for now. If something important develops, you can always run him down at the… What was the precinct?”

  “The Seventh,” Moodrow growled.

  “Yes, the Seventh Precinct.”

  Agent Bradley allowed his gaze to remain locked with Moodrow’s for a few more seconds, then he glanced at Leonora. “Sure,” he said, smiling broadly. He swung back to Moodrow. “So long, Stanley.” He walked into his office, closing the door behind him, and turned on the lights. Moving quickly to his desk, his face composed, he removed a small tape recorder from the center drawer. Setting it next to the intercom, he switched both on.

  In the other office, Moodrow slumped in a straight-backed chair, waiting patiently while Higgins rummaged about in a filing cabinet. “I hope you don’t mind my recording this meeting. It’s just standard procedure, really.”

  “That’s no good,” Moodrow responded. “You gotta learn to take notes. The tape’s too dense. What if we talk for an hour? How many times could you listen? You should learn to use your instincts. Like a spider.” He sprawled in the chair, legs far apart. The morning was almost half over and he was still having a good time. Just for an instant, he caught a glimpse of the reason for his exhilaration and her name, to his surprise, was Rita Melengic.

  “Yes, I see,” Leonora said. She sat down at her desk and picked up a thin, brown file. “Like a spider. Just give me a moment.” She opened the file and began to read quickly. Moodrow watched without commenting, taking in her sense of composure and competence. He observed her hands, the nails at medium length, each perfectly trimmed and covered with clear polish. There was nothing fearful about her and Moodrow, realizing that he could not bully her, gave up the idea as easily as a two-dollar tip at the Killarney Harp. What the fuck, he thought, just another cop. She placed the file, still open, on the desk.

  “How far did you get?” Moodrow asked.

  “All we have is the actual crime.”

  Moodrow pulled several sheets of paper from his pocket and passed them across the desk. “Hold onto these for later.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “The thing is, I’m not a federal agent. I don’t know shit about Arabs. But what I do know is the Seventh Precinct and what goes on inside it. I been there twenty-three years, all my life. I mean, sometimes I don’t go home for days. I stay overnight with some of the families in the neighborhood. I’m talking about civilians, not cops. I know all the bad guys and all the good guys. Anything goes on in the precinct, someone tells me where to dig for the roots. Except for Ronald Chadwick. Him I can’t explain. For sure, he was set up by a kid named Enrique Hentados, but Hentados has disappeared. Now…”

  Leonora interrupted, picking up her pen. “Give me some background on Hentados.”

  “It’s in the new sheets. A Puerto Rican. Devoted to mom. He got his job with Chadwick through a cousin, Paco Baquili. Baquili’s in my pocket. The way he tells it, Enrique was like a kid brother, a kid they let hang around. No way he could get inside that house with a hand grenade.”

  “But if he knew the routine, Sergeant, it would seem quite easy for him to hide upstairs.”

  “Then where is he?” Moodrow pulled his cigarettes from his shirt pocket, handling the pack roughly. That was the problem with federal agents—by the time they had everything down, taped it and photographed it, the game was too boring to play. “You think a ghetto kid like Enrique Hentados can slip off to Rio with the loot? What would he do when he got there? The only hotels he knows about are the welfare hotels on Stanton Street. Rice and beans, Higgins. That’s his universe, and if he was hiding somewhere in that world, I’d already know about it. And I’m not making any generalizations. A guy like Chadwick could bring it off. He could turn up in Los Angeles with a full wallet and strut for the next ten years. Not Enrique.” Moodrow pushed his chair away and began to pace the room. Higgins remained seated, fascinated. “It’s like the tape you’re making. Taking notes forces you to listen for the important parts. That way you train your instincts. After awhile, you know when something’s wrong, when they’re lying. Look, how old are you? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

  Leonora smiled for the first time. Was he trying to flatter her? “I don’t get the point.”

  “The point is Enrique Hentados is dead and I don’t have to find a body to prove it. Somebody used him and threw him away and it wasn’t any of the big dealers. Shit, the whole neighborhood’s in a fucking panic right now. Nobody has the money to take over.”

  “There’s always the possibility that the killer was someone who had a grudge against Chadwick. Maybe he just evened up.”

  “Then where is he? People down there don’t get revenge and just clam up. What’s the point? If the killer was local, someone would be bragging about it right now. The guy came from outside. A fucking pro. This boy’s so good, it’s scary. And here’s something else to think about.” Moodrow leaned over the desk and tapped the back of Leonora Higgins’ hand. “See, this guy likes to give pain. He shoots Chadwick and the bodyguard. Nobody hears nothin’. He’s got the fucking money. Why doesn’t he just take off? There’s not a goddamn thing between him and safety, but he goes out of his way to set up some asshole soldiers two floors away. Did you get any pictures with your file? He blew the shit out of them. You know what I’m saying, right? Pieces all over the walls. If this guy decides to take his action over to Times Square, he’s gonna cover New York with bodies.”

  Leonora pulled her hand away, resisting a mischievous urge to wipe it on her skirt. “I hear you, Sergeant, and I don’t want you to think we didn’t give serious consideration precisely to the point you’re making.”

  “Now you’re gonna say, ‘but,’” Moodrow predicted.

  “Exactly. But after examining the situation a little more closely, the use of a Soviet grenade, which is the only unusual factor in your scenario, is easily explained. The first thing we did, Agent Bradley and myself, was to contact General George Martin at the Defense Department. We wanted to know if any statistics were ever compiled on weapons smuggled back from Vietnam. I’m sure you remember that the North Vietnamese Army was supplied entirely by the Soviet Union and, of course, soldiers traditionally carry trophies home. General Martin told us that thousands of grenades, AK47s, sidearms, even rockets, were actually confiscated during the war years. Keep in mind there were hundreds of thousands of troops stationed there for most of the war, with virtually all of them being replaced every year. In the general’s opinion, which he asked not be made public, it’s unlikely the army recovered a tenth of what came across our borders. If you remember, about six months ago, a Texan marched into a Burger King restaurant in Amarillo wearing a string of Russian grenades around his neck. He wasn’t even a Vietnam veteran. He got them from his son’s army buddy.

  “Even supposing that the attack on Ronald Chadwick did come from outside New York, that Hentados was used and then murdered, w
hy can’t the killer just be a talented thief with enough brains to operate outside his territory? I know I’m insulting you if I suggest you don’t know that drug-related killings, ninety percent of which go unsolved, occur almost every day in New York and many of them are very, very grisly.

  “So where does it go from here? While, technically, the hand grenade is a violation of federal statutes, we’re confident that you’re the man best able to close the Chadwick file, if it can be closed. All right?” She pushed back her chair. The obligatory “briefing” was complete.

  Moodrow stood erect, reaching out to shake hands. He noted, with some satisfaction, that her hand disappeared completely within his. “That’s just what the captain says. He also thinks it’s just gonna go away. Well, what the fuck. I made my report and I guess you got plenty of work, listening to that tape and all. Now Captain Epstein’ll feel much better. My guess is, he’ll drop the whole thing. I mean, if the FBI’s satisfied, then the NYPD must be satisfied. It only stands to reason, right? Well, it was a pleasure chatting with you.” Moodrow leaned across the desk, whispering into the intercom. “And you, too, asshole.”

  George Bradley strolled back into Leonora Higgins’ office, extending a cup of coffee. He smiled at her affectionately. “Light and sweet?”

  Leonora giggled. “How’d I do?”

  “So-so.”

  “Really?” Leonora felt her mood dissolving.

  “He knows more than he told you. And he’s right about instincts. Only they’re not instincts, they’re reflexes. You develop them by practicing. How did he know I was listening? Would you have known?” His voice was kind, not cutting, and she took no insult, recognizing her own deficiencies. By age thirty-three, her age, Moodrow had had almost fourteen years of police experience.

  Bradley continued. “Anyway, you were right about one thing. There’s nothing in it for us. It doesn’t fit our methods. Let Moodrow solve it.”

  Leonora nodded in agreement, tossing Stanley Moodrow aside. Without speaking, she got her coat.

  They passed out of the building, Bradley opening an umbrella, and walked away from the shops on Queens Boulevard, back into the streets of Forest Hills, a solidly middle-class Jewish neighborhood. It was 11 AM and the streets were very quiet. There were some matters they never spoke about in a space where a microphone might be concealed. George had spent the early part of the morning with a Cuban, George Reyes, a double agent attached to the Cuban Mission to the UN. Reyes, a career intelligence officer, worked out of the Dirección General de Intelligensia and exchanged information on Cuba’s foreign activities in return for cash payments made to a sister in Miami. It was Reyes who had told them, weeks before, of Muzzafer’s contract to purchase arms. It was Reyes’ understanding, though he had not met personally with Muzzafer, that an operation of some sort was being planned for the New York area. Over the next ten days, Higgins and Bradley had questioned two dozen radicals, all paid informants, in an effort to head off the coming explosion. They’d come up empty. Even the Israelis could only tell them that Muzzafer had passed from Algeria to Libya, along with several known fugitives, all Americans, apparently acting as a unit.

  Bradley spoke first, his voice tighter than it had been in the office. “Well,” he said, “the deal went down.”

  Leonora felt her heart give a small jump, as at the approach of some still faraway nightmare. “What did he get?”

  “Plastics, automatic weapons, claymores. The full range. Most of it Israeli or American. Anyway, we’ve got the courier’s name. Ramirez. A barber from Union City.”

  “Is he part of it?”

  “Definitely not. He works for the Cubans and our bird insists that the DGI does not control this operation. However, Ramirez did meet, face to face, with someone from the group. He did not just leave the goods on a street corner.”

  Without thinking, Leonora Higgins linked her arm with George Bradley’s. “Can we couple this with Moodrow’s information? Maybe that’s where the money came from.”

  “Sure, it’s possible. You know, this is a strange business. A few rumors, a robbery, an informant’s story and we all go wild. Our only option is to keep up the pressure and wait for something—or nothing—to happen.”

  By the time Moodrow got back to the precinct house on Broome Street, the rain had stopped, although heavy gray clouds still hung, as if pinned, to the tops of the East River bridges. Moodrow left the car double-parked on Pitt Street with the key in the ignition. Even in the 7th, it was considered bad form to steal a police car, especially an ‘82 Fairmount with extensive body damage.

  The new 7th Precinct building, completed in 1981, combined the local police and fire departments, giving each more room and vastly improved communications equipment. For the first time, the cops of the 7th were tied into the central computer in Albany. After more than two decades in the old building, Moodrow had expected to miss the very small noisy rooms and the odor of mildew, but through an almost miraculous process, the new had come to resemble the old within a matter of weeks. The paint, municipal brown on municipal green, cracked, and now hung in sheets along the walls. The urinals, clogged with soggy paper towels, smelled of junkie vomit and the entrance hall still rang with curses and shouts, the endless complaints of criminals brought to justice. The phone system went out six times in the first week and New York Telephone had a team stationed there indefinitely. Somehow, two years later, the funds for the landscaping had disappeared into the bowels of the general budget and the walkway turned into a sea of mud at the least drizzle. Nobody complained, except for Captain Epstein, who continued to retain fantasies of a smoothly functioning paramilitary organization dedicated to “crime processing.”

  Moodrow entered the stationhouse, trailing mud, and acknowledged the greeting of the desk sergeant, Officer Pannino. It was early afternoon and the action was light. Moodrow noted Detective Isaiah Abrams had Jose Rosa handcuffed to a hot water pipe. Rosa was a junkie-burglar and one of Moodrow’s better informed snitches. He looked across at the sergeant, hoping against hope, but Moodrow ignored him and walked directly to Captain Epstein’s office. Rosa would still be there later, even more grateful for any help Moodrow could offer.

  The door to the captain’s office was wide open and Moodrow stuck his head through. “Busy, Captain?” he asked.

  “Stanley,” Epstein smiled, “never too busy for my favorite physician. You’ve healed me completely. Fantastic.” He gestured to the patrolman standing in front of his desk. “This here is Officer Bogard. I’m giving him the orientation lecture. Showing him the Seventh Precinct philosophy. Sit down.”

  Bogard tried to smile at Moodrow, but couldn’t quite get it across. It wasn’t that Moodrow was hostile or even indifferent. Bogard felt like he’d wandered into a veterans’ reunion, though he himself had never been to war. There was a quality of experience here that eluded him completely.

  “How much do you weigh, Bogard?” Moodrow asked.

  “A hundred forty-five. Is there something wrong with that? I passed every strength test on the department exam.”

  “That’s good, Bogard. You got a sap?” Bogard didn’t respond, though he blushed noticeably. Blackjacks were common in the department. “You should learn to use one.” Moodrow sat down, grunting amiably.

  “OK,” Epstein said. “Let’s talk about crime. The people who live in this precinct are very poor, Bogard. I’m sayin’ per-capita income is almost as low as the South Bronx. We got housing projects and we got tenements and we got crime. But that’s OK, Bogard. The department doesn’t expect miracles. Everyone knows we couldn’t stop the crime in New York if we had a million cops on patrol. Prevention is for social workers. Down here we work on percentages. If the city-wide arrest rate for murders is thirty-four percent, which it is, then our rate should be thirty-eight percent. If it’s eight percent for muggers, we go for eleven percent. Shit, Bogard, we don’t have to worry about gettin’ all the criminals. There are so many, they get each other. All we do is keep the num
bers right and stay alive.” He looked at Moodrow. “Anything to add, Sergeant?”

  Moodrow crossed his legs, clots of mud dropping from his heavy, scuffed brogans. “The thing about a sap is you could use it against an unarmed perpetrator and not get busted by the department. Remember one thing: The department protects you against the outside, but they don’t protect you from the department. You gotta be discreet. When you sap a guy, never hit him in the head. Go for the point of the shoulder or the collar bone. If his hands are up, slap his ribs. You wouldn’t believe how fast they come around when you snap a rib.”

  Bogard nodded toward Moodrow. “Thanks for the idea, Sergeant.” Then he turned back to Epstein. “Will that be all, Captain?”

  “Yeah, sure. Welcome to the Seventh. My door’s always open.” He watched Bogard leave, then rose to shut the door. “Beer, Stanley?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled two Budweisers from a small refrigerator and offered one to Moodrow. “How’d it go?”

  Moodrow shrugged his shoulders. “It went. They listened, then sent me home. Just what I expected. All they know about is tape recorders and wiretaps.” He snorted derisively.

  “Don’t take it bad,” Epstein beamed. “You did your job and now it’s over. It’s time to go back to work for the Seventh. I got a big problem at the Asher Levy Nursing Homes on Jackson Street. The Puerto Ricans are harassing the old Jews, throwing stones. No big deal, but it’s every day now and the goddamn rabbi’s been in here three times. He wants to know what kind of Jew I am that I should let my own people be terrorized.” He threw up his arms in disgust. “All right, I know it happens twice a year, like clockwork, but you got a special advantage here. See, you live in the fucking precinct. You know everybody.” That fact, all by itself, branded Moodrow a maniac in Epstein’s eyes. He had never known another cop to live where he worked. “Don’t worry about bringing anyone in. Rabbi Tannenbaum will settle for a cease-fire. You just find out what’s bothering the boys.”